


Limpany

by thegoodreverend



Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur takes care of everybody as per usual, Established Relationship, Fuck TB, John loves his family, M/M, Multi, Spoilers, also mentioned is john/abigail and arthur/abigail, arthur loves john's family too, but there's an actual reason he doesn't have tb, first chapter is like half porn, john marston/arthur morgan/abigail roberts marston is mentioned in here, probably helps if you've gotten past mrs sadie adler widow 2 in ch 6, thanks to the best and worst glitch ever for this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 08:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17240780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoodreverend/pseuds/thegoodreverend
Summary: There’s a very brief moment where John thinks he’s actually going to die, but then the exit is right there and he’s out and running in the street like he’s just busted out of a burning building, and there are cops in front of him and behind and more coming out of alleys he didn’t even see because this stupid terrible city is eighty percent alleys, and that exit was false hope because he’s definitely about to die and-And Arthur is there.Arthur is always there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur is currently flush with cash in my second play-through, which makes all of the WE NEED MONEY extremely frustrating, and I've been wanting to write something about it. After I seriously botched and yet somehow survived the graveyard mission with John in chapter four, it came together.

The job in the graveyard goes very, very poorly. He expects it will because it’s clearly fucked from the start, but he doesn’t care about that. Bronte is a cocky bastard who thinks he’s better than they are because they’re _country people_ and he’s probably played them for fools, which is a funny turn after they’d tried to do the same thing to those godawful idiots back by Rhodes. But it doesn’t matter, because they’ll do whatever he says and get Jack and move the hell on. John doesn’t need to question it. He just needs his son back.

But no, it starts off weird and then takes a nosedive fast in ways he didn’t expect. It’s confusing and hard to see, and then the police show up – but, he thinks, it’s hard to see, so they should have been able to get out undetected creeping along all of this strange tombs in the dark. He and Arthur have gotten out of tighter spots before, back when they’d go out and do jobs with each other regularly. But the thing is, they don’t get out undetected. Maybe he steps on a rock, maybe Arthur stumbles – he can’t remember. But the cops see them, and then it’s just bullets everywhere, and it’s fucking _hard to see_ over the mist in this godforsaken swamp and all of the gun smoke and the way the graveyard obscures all light. He does sees four of them on Arthur before he can move, and then once he manages to he’s got four on him too. He breaks free, somehow – John’s lived his life walking on a wire and narrowly avoiding falling into the abyss below, so he doesn’t question how he gets free as he crashes hard into a tomb. His ribs scream, and he shouts with them as he tackles a cop.

Arthur’s revolvers are firing wildly, and John’s gun has been knocked out of his hand so he’s using a knife and scrambling down the walkway after the older man. Arthur is making them a path, cutting through all these lawmen with his broad body, and at some point it just makes more sense to run than it does to fight and so that’s what he does. But John can’t quite keep up, and he knows – _knows –_ that Arthur will leave him behind. He has to, because Arthur has the cash they need to take to that gaudy mansion, and if they don’t they won’t get Jack back. Arthur will make sure Jack’s safe. And Jack is what matters. Abigail needs him back. They can make do without John.

He loses sight of Arthur, and the number of people there are and the way the sound bounces off stone means he can’t tell who’s firing anymore. He’s picked up another gun and he’s scrambling over graves and ignoring the scream of his ribs, and progress is faster. There’s a very brief moment where he thinks he’s actually going to die, but then the exit is _right there_ and he’s out and running in the street like he’s just busted out of a burning building , and there are cops in front of him and behind and more coming out of alleys he didn’t even see because this stupid terrible city is eighty percent alleys, and that exit was false hope because he’s _definitely about to die_ and-

And Arthur is there.

Arthur is always there.

Arthur is shouting at him to hurry and covering him, fight cops as much as the horse under him which is skittish and shifting about and ready to bolt. Everything is tense. Everything has gone belly-up. Everything is utterly fucked and their bounties will be massive after this many dead lawmen, but John doesn’t care because he’s not going to die if Arthur’s got his back. They’ve got the money, and they’lre getting out alive. John is full of adrenaline and his sole focus is on the fact that he’s going to see his son again because Arthur didn’t leave him behind.

“God damn it, John, move!”

He’s moving. He’s moving as fast as he can, and he’s on Old Boy and Arthur is already making a run for the swamps, and now that he’s back on his saddle he can get to a gun he’s more familiar with and cover their backs. The cops are following, and despite all odds John catches up with his brother in arms even though the man has a faster horse and is generally better at everything, and John is following him blindly and only half paying attention as he tries to shoot as many cops as possible. It’s alright for John to follow that way. Arthur has spent weeks away on his own, he knows the swamps now. And even if he didn’t John would follow.

They’re making a mad dash for the border. The police have followed them outside of city limits, and they’re still trailing as they pass through Lakay and over bridges, past screaming fishermen and hissing gators and through clouds of bugs. John has given up shooting, because in this fog and at this speed he’ll end up hitting somebody who doesn’t deserve it. So he just focuses on Arthur’s shape in front of him and keeping low to Old Boy so he doesn’t get shot himself. Because that would be just his luck, to get out of that cluster fuck just to get shot in the back.

And then they’re in New Hanover, and it’s over. He’s still breathing. He’s breathing hard and it hurts every time he does, but he’s breathing.

“Christ almighty,” he gasps, and Arthur grunts an agreement. They exchange a long look, and John shakes his head. He’s got nothin’.

“What the hell was that?” Arthur barks, and he leans over his saddle and rubs his hand over his eyes. He’s shaking a little.

“Damn if I know. C’mon, let’s get this over with so we can get Jack and be done with it.”

“Sure,” Arthur nods, and breathes hard. John watches him shake the tension out of his shoulders, and then turns Old Boy back into the swamp.

They get back into Saint Denis miraculously undetected, and John is so relieved to see Jack sitting with Dutch, so focused on holding him tight and making sure he isn’t hurt, that he can’t even be bothered to care that Dutch is making it sound like his having to wait outside for a few minutes can compete with what he and Arthur just went through. But it doesn’t matter – the shootout doesn’t even matter. The pain in his ribs doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but Jack, who is tight against his chest and totally safe.

John is full of a lot of emotion he isn’t comfortable with on the ride home. The relief is fine – he’s even comfortable holding Jack close and admitting that he’s been a terrible father. But the vitriol that had kept him running has subsided into something sad and tired, and Jack won’t stop talking about Bronte and calling him _papa_ of all the goddamn things, and back at camp everybody is loud and drunk at this party that Dutch has insisted upon having. Which is fine, normally, but it feels strange that night. He exchanges sidelong glances with Arthur and Abigail and knows he’s not alone in feeling that way. Too many folks remain cautiously on the sidelines. Micah is talking about something fucked up and nobody is stopping him. Molly is screaming at Dutch, and John knows he’s about five minutes away from making another speech about faith to make up for the lack of control he has over her and how chaotic everything is getting. Abigail is still angry at him, too, and he’s starting to feel desperate thinking that nothing will fix his mistakes. Javier is singing, and Karen is drunk and laughing, but it feels strangely like a puppet show.

Abigail and John agree that it’s best to take Jack upstairs and head to bed. Abigail falls asleep on the mattress immediately, understandably exhausted although John is surprised she manages to take her eyes off her son, and Jack paces around his bed in the corner. John stretches out on the ground, because he and Abigail aren’t sleeping in the same bed still, and he folds his hands on his stomach and crosses his legs at the ankles and watches Jack play. He wants to sleep, but can’t because of the pain in his ribs and the fact that he’s so tired he’s not even tired anymore, so he just watches Jack.

A storm moves in. He can feel it shaking the rotting mansion, feel the wind getting through the planks. Jack is unphased, and Abigail is still asleep. All the storm succeeds in doing is masking the sounds of Arthur coming up the stairs and the sad excuse for a party outside. John only knows Arthur’s come upstairs because he catches his shadow lingering outside the hole in the wall of their room. He’s too tired to feel defensive about the fact that Arthur now knows for a fact he and Abigail aren’t well and truly reconciled yet.

He stays quiet as Arthur enters the room and has just enough time to pull his hat down further over his eyes. It’s clear he assumes they’re asleep – John listens to him talk Jack into finally lying down and turning in. Watches him stroke Jack’s hair out of his face, and then get up and walk back out the way he came. Everything is still and quiet after he leaves aside from the weather, and John watches Jack sleep, and thinks he only can because Arthur waited for him. Because Arthur went with him in the first place to get Jack back, without a moment’s hesitation. Arthur is always there.

 _Go be with your family_ , he said. Like a god damn idiot.

The wind and thunder must have covered up the sound of him walking down the hall just like it covered Arthur coming up the stairs. The house is too busy creaking with the weather, it doesn’t bother caring about his weight. It covers the sound of him walking down the hall, the sound of Arthur’s door opening and closing, the sound of his heart beating hard and fast, and he actually makes Arthur jump.

“Jesus Christ, John,” he exhales after he realizes it’s only John standing inside his door. He puts his hands on his hips and dips at the waist. “I almost shot you. What the hell are you doin’ in here?”

“You didn’t let me finish sayin’ thank you.”

“You don’t gotta, I said I understand.”

“Just – you saved my kid, and you – you coulda gotten shot, waitin’ for me like that.”

Arthur stands awkwardly, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands let alone the rest of his body. John watches his face blanch, and then he makes a little _tch_ sound and shifts like he’s annoyed. The flush on his neck and the fact that his clothes are half undone because he was in the process of getting undressed when John came in sort of undermine his attempt.

“Fine, Marston. You go ahead and finish, if you got somethin’ that important to say.”

John walks up to him and watches Arthur shift like his skin is crawling. Arthur has always been like this when people try to pay him any attention – if there isn’t a clear exit strategy, if nobody lets him play it off like a joke or there’s not a way to escape physically, he can’t handle anything gracefully. John’s never understood that about him, because he doesn’t have an ounce of shame himself and he’s not half as handsome or strong or capable as Arthur is.

“Out with it, already. I’m tired,” Arthur says, even though he knows full well John isn’t going to say anything. Even without their history, John’s gotten well within his personal space and there’s no other way to interpret what he’s about to do.

When John takes his chin between his fingers and feels stubble catch on his callouses, Arthur averts his gaze. Swallows hard. John can tell by the way his lip twitches that he isn’t going to stop him, and he slides his hand to the back of Arthur’s neck and kisses him.

“You should go be with your family,” Arthur says when he pulls back, and if he wasn’t so close John wouldn’t be able to hear him over the storm outside.

“They’re asleep.”

“You don’t gotta thank me, John, really. You woulda done the same for me.”

“As if you believe that,” John scoffed.

“Naw, I know you would. Even considerin’ all that bullshit you pulled, I know you would.”

John would. It’s funny, he thinks, because that’s always been true – and he thinks he might actually be as stupid as Arthur says he is, because the prospect of being a father made him run away but the idea of getting shot and dying for Arthur has never made him bat an eye. He wouldn’t do that for just anybody – the list includes Abigail, Arthur, Jack, Dutch, and Hosea, and doesn’t extend past that. One of the many points where he and Arthur differ. Arthur’d die for anybody there. Nobody ever really thanks him for that. Nobody knows how good they have it.

John grips the back of Arthur’s neck again and kisses him, and again, Arthur doesn’t stop him. But he doesn’t move either, and John can feel the muscles in his cheeks tense and can practically hear him saying _You don’t gotta thank me_. So he growls a little, and moves his hands so he can fist them in Arthur’s shirt. The sudden movement hurts him, but it doesn’t matter.

“God damn you, Arthur, can’t you just let somebody do somethin’ nice for you for a change?”

“Maybe I don’t want you thankin’ me like – like _this_ , like it’s an obligation.”

“It ever occur to you what a pain in the ass it is to get me to feel obligated to _anything_? I wouldn’t be in here if I didn’t wanna be, I just wanna… I wanna, alright? Just let me do this.”

John wants a lot of things. He wants to be close, wants Arthur to feel how glad he is to be on his team, wants Arthur to feel good, wants things to be like they were before he left. Wants to see some of that bone-deep exhaustion disappear from Arthur’s face. His hands are still tight in Arthur’s shirt, like he’s afraid the older man’s about to try and shove him off. Which he might, judging by the way he’s controlling his breath and tensing his jaw, but John is gambling. He’s betting that tension is Arthur giving in to relaxing, even for the little time he’ll have to do it. John presses his forehead against Arthur’s, and Arthur sighs deeply but says nothing. He says nothing, and closes his eyes and lets John walk him back to the bed.

It’s not the first time. The first time was a drunken night six years prior and they’d known each other in every other way but physically by then. When they’d first met, Arthur had avoided him at all costs until Hosea and Dutch forced them to interact and then he’d been dismissive and mean. It hadn’t really bothered John because John _idolized_ him even at twelve and all of Arthur’s dislike had rolled off his back like water on a duck. He fostered a painful crush on the man for so long, and he’d taken it out on similarly muscled men he found in saloons across the country.

Arthur had hated him at first, because he was a nuisance and because Arthur was being mean towards anybody who looked at him because his woman and child had died. And then when John got older and more capable, they became friends on top of the functional layer of knowing everything about each other in the way that two people who spent every hour of the day together did. And then John grew into a man, and they were attached at the hip, and it had only taken him until he was god damn twenty years old but John got what he wanted.

He no longer remembers the specifics, only that he’d bullied Arthur up against the wall in an alley behind a saloon after they’d gotten into a drunken fight about nothing and kissed him, and Arthur had been surprised but didn’t stop him. He tried to treat him with kid gloves but by that time John had been with a considerable number of men and women and he didn’t need it. He’d dropped to his knees and taken Arthur in his mouth, and when that was done with he’d bent him over and fucked him. Awkward and silent and utterly wonderful because it was _Arthur_. It could have been snowing, they could have been caught and arrested for public indecency, and it still would have been perfect.

It had been regular after that. Even when Abigail came into the picture, although Arthur had taken some convincing that their relationship was that _open_ – and John, being the wanton creature he was and knowing Abigail would not protest because honestly how could you deny such a beautiful man, had welcomed Arthur into his and Abigail’s bed more than once. H e knew after he’d run away, Abigail had moved into Arthur’s tent and they’d taken care of each other in more than a few ways, because Abigail had told him so and because after he got back it took her a few weeks to move out . A few weeks to even talk to John, and i t took Arthur even longer. Before Blackwater, John had tried to talk to him about it because he missed him and thought Arthur was being childish (it was only _one year_ and he’d come back in the end, dear lord) but he’d never gotten the chance.

In Colter, though, he distinctly remembered both Abigail and Arthur sitting with him. Since he’d nearly died, Arthur had been around more and acknowledging his existence. No less mean, but Arthur had always been mean to him. It was how they were, just like how he and Abigail fought. Arthur jabbed, hard but without venom like they were two dogs roughhousing whenever they talked. So the meanness had been something of a relief when it started, even through the fever from his wounds. First there was the meanness, and then he had drunkenly kissed John at the party after Sean’s return, and slowly everything was falling back into place. They’d been together a few times since. More importantly, when Arthur had escaped from the O’Driscolls and woken to find John sitting in his room he hadn’t asked him to leave. Not even after John stroked his hair and grabbed his hand to intertwined their fingers. He’d only squeezed and closed his eyes, and John had finally truly believed everything would be fine. Even the rest of the world was on fire, and if he was slowly losing faith in Dutch, and Abigail was still mad at him, everything would work out.

Most of the time, when they’ve come together like this, he takes Arthur. He’s not sure why. That tends to just be how it is. John has often wondered about it, as he never implied that he was adverse to being on the receiving end; maybe Arthur’s afraid of making him feel used, maybe it’s because John’s younger by not an inconsiderable amount, maybe it’s because Arthur doesn’t like taking from anybody in the gang in any meaningful way – there are a lot of maybes. John finds he doesn’t want much of anything else tonight, though, and so he palms Arthur’s cock through his work pants and when he finds him already hard, turns around to press his ass against him.

John thinks the sound that leaves Arthur’s mouth is a little like sob, although it’s really just an exhale, and for a few seconds he thinks he’s going to have to fight him to just give him what he wants but then Arthur’s huge hands are on his waist and he’s using his slight height difference to lean in and kiss John’s neck. He doesn’t even hesitate when John arches his back and shifts until he gets the hint and moves to kiss him. One of his hands moves to John’s neck, and the position is awkward and painful and the kiss is sloppy and John _loves it_ . He grinds back and feels Arthur’s erection pressing into him, and grins when Arthur breathes _you’re a god damn devil_ against his mouth.

John knows that Arthur won’t take the lead. He never really has – he always waits for John to give him a direction, verbal or otherwise. John knows he’ll have to start undressing first before Arthur will finish the job he started before John came in and take his own clothes off, that he’ll have to keep moving them back towards the cot, that he’ll have to pull away and get onto his elbows and knees and present himself for Arthur. He doesn’t mind it, being the one to make the decisions. He rarely gets to otherwise.

Arthur’s behind him on the cot looking him over. He can feel his gaze and preens a little under it, makes a pleased noise as Arthur runs his fingers over his body. They linger over his ribs, gentler there than anywhere else, and John knows he must be bruised. He hasn’t looked, but by the displeased grunt Arthur makes he knows it must look bad. As Arthur moves his fingers along John’s bare waist down to his ass to knead the flesh there, John reaches between his legs and strokes himself. He’s already hard even through the flare of pain that Arthur’s fingers spread through his ribs, he’s been that way since Arthur had touched his neck, and he makes a show of moaning, of bowing his back. The older man groans, and John’s cock twitches a little in his hand.

“You bring anything with you?”

“No,” John says, pressing back. He shivers, feeling Arthur’s thighs on the back of his, the heavy weight of his cock pressed against his ass. The way Arthur curses makes him grin.

“Of course you don’t. You never plan for anything, why would you plan for this.”

Arthur grips his hips like he doesn’t want to leave and then moves away, and John watches his dimly lit form as he looks through drawers. As much as he dislikes the fact that Arthur’s no longer touching him, he really doesn’t mind the view – although it’s tinted with the bitterness of their situation. Arthur is a large man – broad, well muscled, covered in scars and other signs of his storied past, and his muscles shift with each step, but he’s gotten thinner in the past few months. He keeps them all well fed, along with the other people who have any skill at hunting, but he doesn’t eat much of what he brings back. John suspects it’s because he thinks other people need it more. Or maybe it’s just because of stress that he’s lost the weight. Either way, as a result his figure has gotten angled there’s a taper to his back that wasn’t there the last time John’d seen him fully naked. It makes his natural stalk look a lot more like attitude, like he’s cocky instead of just a man used to carrying bulk and riding horseback for hours a time. John hates to admit that he likes it.

He comes back with a tin in his hand, and looks away when John doesn’t. John doesn’t care that he’s been caught staring, given the intimacy of their situation, but he likes that Arthur’s shy about it. Big, scary Arthur Morgan, looking away like a kid. It makes John grin, and the grin widens as Arthur grumbles at him about it.

Whatever’s in the tin smells good, John thinks. He doesn’t bother asking what it is – something Arthur’s made, probably. He’s gotten good at that over the past few months, like he’s got talent for it like Hosea. John can barely tell a rose from a tulip and is pretty sure he’d accidentally poison himself if he tried his hand at any of it, and really, for _this,_ he’d use pretty much anything. He wouldn’t have complained if Arthur had just grabbed his damn gun oil. He didn’t say that either, though, because Arthur would probably smack him upside the head and call him an idiot.

Arthur’s fingers feel good too. For as rarely as they’ve been together this way, and long as it’s been since the last time, he remembers a lot. It makes sense, John thinks, since he learned so fast. Arthur is nothing if not a courteous and giving partner. He wastes no time in curling his fingers and rubbing in the way he knows leaves John’s legs trembling, makes his toes curl and all the air leave his lungs. He adds more fingers before John can think to curse him for taking his time, stretches him and flexes his fingers until John has lowered his chest to the bed and moans against his forearm, until he has to squeeze the base of his cock tightly and he wishes his ribs hurt _more_ because it’s happening far too fast. John doesn’t bother muffling the sound he’s making. The storm will cover them nicely.

He cries out when Arthur finally takes him, and moves his hand from his cock to one of Arthur’s on his hip. He holds it there, tight, in case Arthur has mistaken the noise he made for one of pain. With the hand John doesn’t have a vice grip on, Arthur traces the line of his spine and rests his hand gentle and warm on John’s shoulders. John can’t make out what he’s saying over the sound of the rain, but the tone makes him feel warm.

When Arthur moves he cries out again, and by the time Arthur is thrusting in earnest he’s making embarrassing noises he’s glad nobody can hear. In an effort to stay upright and not let Arthur crush him completely, he’s bracing himself against the wall and the bed with his hands, and his neglected cock aches just like his body and it’s all bluring together into something intolerable and amazing. Especially when Arthur finds the perfect angle, when that strange spark jolts through his body and makes him shake. So he can’t complain when Arthur breaks his rhythm to pull out and flip John onto his back. Arthur’s got him nearly bent in half and his thighs are burning with it, and every thrust sends a spark of pain into his chest, but there’s just enough space between them for John to touch himself. John moves his hand up the span of Arthur’s chest to his neck, brushing up against his jaw before moving to grasp his hair, and he moans into Arthur’s mouth when they kiss, and nothing else matters but that feeling. Like this, John can hear what Arthur is saying, and the desperate and shamed look on his face makes sense. It makes sense for Arthur, anyway – it’s a kind of look he’s seen there before in different levels of intensity, whenever Arthur gets something he thinks is too much for him but that he deeply wants. John usually laughs at that face, but he can’t bring himself to now. Not when Arthur’s breathing compliments against his jaw, damning him for what he does to him.

John comes hard, making a mess between their bellies and over his hand, as Arthur tells him how good he feels. Through the fog that comes on the heels of his orgasm, John hears Arthur curse. He hunches and tenses, and John uses the hand that isn’t pinned between them to hold onto him.

“That’s right,” John rasps, voice more raw than normal, “C’mon, Arthur, give it to me.”

Arthur moans his name, and it sounds painful like it’s ripped from him. His hips stutter, and John can feel his cock pulsing as he comes. What he focuses on, though, is the feeling of Arthur’s face against his neck, the drag of his stubble and the tight pressure of his fingers against him as John’s legs slip down his arms. It’s not long before Arthur’s collapsed on him completely, and it hurts but John can’t bring himself to do anything about it. It’s worth it.

John’s skin is cold wherever Arthur isn’t touching him, sweat chilled by the breeze that’s coming in through the hole in the wall. He feels Arthur’s heart beating wildly, hears his breath in his ear, smells the old pomade in his hair mixing with his sweat and tobacco and another scent that he can’t name but is distinctly Arthur. John clings to him, holding him still until he’s gone soft and there’s nothing stopping his spend from dripping down the curve of John’s ass.

“Let me stay,” John says, and he expects Arthur to tell him to go be with his family. He’s ready with a response for that, though, and it’s something he should have told Arthur a long time ago, but he doesn’t need to use it. Arthur nods against him, and speaks as John combs his fingers through his hair.

“We gotta take a trip. After whatever bullshit I gotta do with Dutch and that scumbag Italian, you and me are gonna take a trip.”

“’M ready any time you say.”

Arthur pulls away, and John hates that but he likes seeing Arthur’s flushed face and wild hair and the muscles in his body move. Likes watching him get up and pad over to the shaving station, and is so distracted watching him clean himself off that he almost lets the damp rag Arthur tosses to him hit him in the face. Arthur laughs at him, and John can’t bring himself to feel mad or even pretend to feel mad – he just cleans himself off and feels bone-tired.

“You gotta stop gettin’ hurt. Won’t be nothin’ left of you by the time we’re outta this mess,” Arthur says. He lights a cigarette before he blows out his lamp, and John lays heavy-limbed on the cot.

“But I’m so good at it.”

“It’s true, you are a natural dumbass.”

Arthur, despite his size, is very good at navigating his tight sleeping accomodations. He slides around John’s body to avoid his injury and then settles half between him and the wall and half covering him. John slots his arm around Arthur’s shoulder to cushion his head, and takes the cigarette when it’s passed to him, and their limbs are tangled and John feels Arthur’s heart pounding against his side and it’s _so familiar._ John thinks that this is the first time they’ve rested like this since he’s been back, and maybe it’s just because the day has been very very long and he’s exhausted and his ribs hurt a whole lot more now that he’s not distracted by how badly he wants to fuck Arthur, but he feels fucking _sad_. Of all things. He finishes the cigarette and puts it out on the tray next to the cot, and turns towards Arthur. It only entangles them further, and Arthur presses his lips to the base of John’s throat.

“‘S been a while since you’n me went anywhere,” John says, and knows Arthur must feel him swallow. His throat feels tight. He’s so god damn tired.

“I miss it.”

Arthur is covering a lot of subjects when he says that. The days before Blackwater, the days before John disappeared. When things were easier and carefree, and they went out on jobs and took days to go back to camp because they were busy acting like idiots with enjoying each other’s company. John nods, and since nobody’s there to scrutinize him for his feelings he holds Arthur as close as he can manage. He thinks he can hear Arthur's heart beating over the storm outside as he falls asleep.

Arthur wakes too early. He usually does, which is why John rarely sees him anymore. By the time the rest of the gang is up, Arthur is already out and on the road on some errand for Dutch or in pursuit of some wild beast. But he’ll see him this morning, because Arthur waking early means he does too. The storm has passed but the lighting is strange and warm for so early in the morning, and the humidity is still lingering. John thinks he’s ready to get out of Lemoyne. He watches Arthur dress, and thinks again that his clothes are a little too loose on him as he focuses on the extra folds instead of the new scars Colm O’Driscoll put on him.

“You can stay there as long as you want,” Arthur says, quiet now that there’s no weather to cover him. “Providin’ you don’t get caught leavin’.”

“You think I’m new at this, Morgan?”

Arthur huffs a laugh, and he’s about to respond when something catches his attention. John watches him walk over and pick up a letter.

“Where’d that come from?” John asks, and he can’t stop the feeling of alarm that creeps up on him. Suddenly, staying in bed doesn’t feel like a great idea. He gets up and starts getting dressed too.

Arthur doesn’t seem too concerned that they’ve been caught, and grunts a little. “Who knows. Only people who come in here without permission’re Dutch and Mrs. Grimshaw, and considerin’ we didn’t get woken up to angry shoutin’ I’m bettin’ it was the latter.”

John nodded. Arthur must be right, because Grimshaw, despite all her many strong opinions, had never batted at eye at them. She’d caught them a few times, just like Dutch and Hosea had, but wasn’t bothered. John had to give her credit for that.

“Who’s it from?” he asks. He looks for his vest as he tucks his shirt into his pants.

“Mary.”

John stops, and looks. Arthur doesn’t look any particular way, and John doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like when he can’t read Arthur like an open book.

“What’s she want?”

“Help with somethin’. She’s in Saint Denis.”

“Well. Tell her hi for me, if she ain’t too offended at the fact I still exist,” John gives him a quick laugh and shakes his head. His vest is wedged behind Arthur’s chest, recently covered in cougar skin. He’d much rather think of Arthur fighting a wild cat than laying his heart on the a table for Mary Linton to stamp all over.

“I like that you’re assumin’ I’ll go.”

“Don’t play with me, Arthur, we both know you’re gonna.”

“I swear to God, John, if you start talkin’ shit about-”

“I’m not gonna. Mary’s a fine woman, and I know she loves you plenty. Problem is, we ain’t fine people, and unless you plan on retirin’ and leavin’ the rest of us behind, not a single god damn thing is gonna change about the fact that you can’t be with her. She don’t want this life and it don’t matter how much you care about each other. If you wanna go and help her that’s fine but Jesus, Arthur, at some point you gotta say goodbye.”

He sees Arthur’s jaw tighten, and knows there’s nothing he’s going to say, so he shrugs his coat on and walks towards him. Arthur doesn’t stop him when he moves in to kiss him, even kisses him back, and John is thankful he’s heard it as the painful truth it is and not a bitter dig. It won’t stop him from going, though, and it makes the kiss taste bitter.

“After we deal with Bronte and I sort this out for Mary,” Arthur says, “We’ll get outta here for a couple days.”

“Like I said. Any time.”

Arthur nods, and John hears the sound of Dutch and Molly talking through the walls. He pats Arthur’s chest, and exits the room before his misses out on the chance to leave unnoticed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somebody has a plan, and it's not even Dutch this time

Things spiral wildly out of Arthur’s control before he has a chance to  take John anywhere, and the next thing he knows Hosea and Lenny are dead, John is in prison, and he’s confident he doesn’t ever want to set foot on a boat again after Guarma. And things are terrible – awful.  Worse than they’ve ever been,  which, considering everything he’s seen, is pretty god damn bad . Dutch is losing his mind, the new camp they’ve set up is depressing and hostile, and everything Arthur has ever had is gone.  Ripped away from him  by circumstances b oth in and out of his control . So of course he goes after John, even though Dutch has told him not to. Arthur knows to be loyal to what matters, and he doesn’t have much to be loyal to anymore as far as Dutch is concerned. Especially not when he’s set up against John.  Not now, anyway – those days are long gone. Now, Arthur will pick John over most anybody else.  Abigail doesn’t even need to ask, although she does anyway.

John says thank you as he lets Arthur help him onto Sadie’s horse. Arthur doesn’t bother telling him not to. He doesn’t even stop him lingering when he touches Arthur, even though he suspects he’s not doing it because he’s stiff from the mistreatment in prison. Sadie doesn’t say anything about it either, and Arthur figures she must know. He hides the flush of embarrassment from his face admirably after. 

And of course, Dutch isn’t happy. He blusters on about how Arthur’s ruined his plan  and that he’s lost his faith , and Arthur can’t help feeling bad even though he’s sure down to his bones that Dutch didn’t have a plan. Doesn’t have one. Ha s n’t ever had one. Dutch had good ideas, but no plans, and he cold-shoulders John in retaliation  now . John doesn’t seem to mind. The cold bitterness of being left behind is clear in his face, and Arthur is sure he appreciates the distance. He stays out of the way, keeping watch and doing chores and playing with Jack.  Arthur tries not to read too much into the fact that Dutch sends him and John out to blow up a god damn bridge in one of the dumbest, riskiest moves they’ve pulled in a while.

Abigail approaches him  not long after they get back , looking tired in the way that everybody in camp looks tired  now . They don’t have much longer, Arthur thin k s, watching her give him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She watches him clean his gun,  and leans against the side of his caravan with a cup of coffee . He’s going to meet Sadie and Dutch at a bar  in Saint Denis, and he  figures he’ll need it  with the way anything involving Dutch has been going recently.

“Is it really a good idea to go back there?” she asks him. 

“Probably not,” he grunts, and knows she’s shaking her head. 

“Well. Try not and get shot or abducted or worse. It’ll be just my luck if all three of my boys get taken. And considerin’ you’re the one who’s brought the other two back, I don’t know who’s gonna bring you back if you need it.” 

“I suspect Mrs. Adler will keep your interests in mind,” he says, and lets himself smile a little. 

“God bless her,” Abigail laughs, still tired. She sighs, then, and Arthur feels it in his chest. “Oh, Arthur. What are we gonna do?”

“We’ll figure it out,” he says, keeping his voice quiet. Javier and Bill have been giving him strange looks. Javier has even accused him of undermining Dutch. He doesn’t need them thinking they’re conspiring, even if he feels like they are. 

“I don’t see how.” 

Arthur stands, and puts the repeater on his back. A quick look tells him nobody’s watching – so he puts his hand on Abigail’s shoulder and leans down. “ We will . Nothin’s gonna happen to your family, Abigail.”

“You gonna promise me?”

“I swear.”

Abigail smile s again, and put s her hand on his wrist  and runs her finger over a scar there. “Come back safe, Arthur.”

Arthur  nods , and  leans to kiss her temple. 

He  comes back safe . All things considered  the whole endeavor went well – as it turned out, Sadie and Dutch wanted to observe Colm O’Driscoll’s execution and make sure none of his flunkies rescued him at the last second, so it’s not the worst job Arthur’s had . At least compared to all of their other recent endeavors. Nobody was dead but Colm and some O’Driscolls, and nobody he cared about was hurt. Sure, it could have been better. For example, they could have stayed the hell out of it, because it wasn’t any of their business, but at least Sadie had  some closure. And Arthur thinks that if Sadie hadn’t been there, he would have said no. More and more often, there are a lot of things Dutch wants him to do that he doesn’t think he will. He feels like he’s waking up for the first time in a while. 

Sadie didn’t get enough closure from just Colm. She asks him, when they get back, to help her take out the rest of the gang. She’s found where they’re hidden out, up north and west a little ways in West Elizabeth. Arthur knows immediately where she’s talking about, and even though it rubs him entirely the wrong way it’s  _Sadie_ and if he’s honest she could ask him to walk on the wrong end of a thousand nails and he’d do it. So she rides out, and Arthur goes back to his tent to clean his guns again and shave and feel a little more like a human instead of whatever this exhaustion has turned him into.

And there’s a letter from Mary,  sitting there on his table next to the flower that his mother had loved,  and as he reads it he thinks there’s going to be a lot more that Dutch wants him to do in the future and he  _knows_ he won’t  because this life has ruined enough for him and most of it has been a lie . Mary’s letter is full of small truths that he hates, but they’re truths, and denying the truth has never done him any good.  He’s been suffering  from that for years.  Mary is ending it, because he said he’d run away with her in Saint Denis once he got the money for it and made sure his family was safe, and then he’d never written to her afterwards. Mary says she knows he won’t change, but what she means is that it’s time for both of them to move on. He could defend himself, write back and tell her that he was stuck in a godforsaken jungle in somebody else’s drama  so he couldn’t write to her  because finally,  _finally_ , he’s ready to get out .  H e had money, and they could  run away just like they’d said in Saint Denis and  go anywhere they wanted - 

But there are other truths there that he can’t deny,  ones that cant be fixed . And he can’t figure how the Marstons fit in with this perfect ending with Mary, or if he’d ever really be rid of his past. Pinkertons would find them if they didn’t change their names and separate from their former lives, and if Mary wouldn’t join him while he was in the gang, he doubted she’d join him on the run  from it. It’s easier, somehow, for Mary to be the one to do this. For Mary, all that matters is that he said he would run with her, and then he never wrote, and their names were in the news and he really would never change. It’s a simpler ending, and for the first time in a long time everything snaps into place for Arthur. 

Feeling reckless and full of determination, Arthur doesn’t care if Javier and Bill or either of Micah’s greasy friends see him walk over to John at the scout fire. He doesn’t care if they see him crouch down and speak in low tones with a hand on the back of John’s neck. John looks at him with concern, and he ignores it. 

“I’m gonna go help Mrs. Adler with somethin’, out in West Elizabeth. About a day’s ride from that first camp after we got outta Colter. You remember where that is?” 

“Yeah, I remember,” John says, concern growing more plain. “Why?”

“There’s a town a few miles southwest of that. Well. There was a town. Limpany. It’s burnt out completely, nothin’ but skeletons and scorched earth. I need you to meet me there. Leave tonight.” 

“Should I bring-”

“No, just you. Any more and you’ll be followed for sure. And John, you can not be followed. No matter what – not by anybody. You do what you need to, to make sure that don’t happen.”

“Should I be worried right now? ‘Cause I’m feelin’ worried.”

“Not about this. You gonna come?”

“You know I am, Arthur.”

Arthur nods, and tightens his grip on John’s neck before he stands.  He doesn’t give himself time to think on how striking John looks, even when he’s bone-tired,  how trusting his big dark eyes are.  Sadie’s waiting for him, and revenge is a waste of time but Sadie asked him to help, and so he’ll do it. He has things he wants to talk to her about, anyway. 

They fight the O’Driscolls at Hanging Dog Ranch and it’s a total bloodbath. After they’re done  S adie rides away from him covered in blood and happy to go along with his plans -  t he woman says she doesn’t have much to live for, but Arthur thinks that’s not very true. She’s still mourning and in her mind, her world seems small. That will change the further away from it all she gets.  He imagines she’ll appreciate his plan  even more down the line.

He checks the  ranch for goods and supplies, waits for two ranchers who pass by to leave, and then gets on his horse and rides for Limpany. He hasn’t been back since before Shady Belle, and he doubts much has changed. And not much has – it’s just like he left it, except John’s tent is set up in the trees a short while off, and Old Boy is grazing, wandering around unsupervised. Arthur hitches his horse to a tree and dismounts, and can’t help feeling a little nervous about the fact that he doesn’t see John. It would be just his luck if some bounty hunter swooped down and picked him up when he’d finally settled on the fact that they had to get out while it was still possible.  Or worse, maybe Bill or Javier had followed. Or worse yet, Micah.

He’s a few moments away from calling out for him when  John appears from inside the burned out saloon, covered in dirt and looking sheepish. Despite it all, Arthur feels himself starting to laugh. 

“What the hell are you doin’?”

“Lookin’ around,” John says, walking up to him. “Took you long enough.”

“You’re a god damn mess. Trust you to wander around, stickin’ your nose in places it don’t belong like a child.”

“Like you didn’t do the same thing when you found this place. I ain’t never seen nowhere burned down like this before.”

“Sure,” Arthur says, and shakes his head a little. For a moment, he just looks at John, covered in soot and filth and really not all that different from the kid he was when Arthur first met him. Back when he was just some annoying pain in the ass that he had to compete with for attention. Hosea had told him then that one day John would be the only reason he stayed alive and he’d learn to appreciate him, and he knew Hosea’d been talking about being able to trust the man with a gun next you in a fight but it was so painfully true now for so many reasons that it made his chest ache. 

“So,” John says, scrunching up his face a little. Impatient, like a child. “What’d you bring me out here for?”

Arthur jerks his head towards what was once the sheriff’s office, and starts walking. John follows him. 

Originally, the locked box he’d found the most serious secret he’d ever kept in had been under the desk inside. It had been too heavy for him to want to lift, so he’d just dragged it, and it had left marks on the floor. After what he’d seen inside, he didn’t want to put it back with such a clear indicator next to it, just in case anybody else got as curious as he had been, so he’d placed it under the building and piled rocks and dirt around it  so  it was inconspicuous and hidden from view , and now he stands next to the mound and points to it. 

John holds his hands out,  looking petulant . “ What ?”

“Well, dig, Marston.” 

“Why do I gotta dig?”

“I ain’t doin’ it - you’re already covered in filth. Hell, maybe I like watchin’ you down in the dirt.”

John looks mad for a split second and then grunts and waves him off, grumbling as he gets on his knees.  Arthur laughs and lights a cigarette, watching John expectantly. 

He’s been back once since he found the place, and it felt as surreal opening the box  then as it did the first time. Watching John move away dirt and rocks before finding the box, and he watches the man’s face and feels his heart beat faster. John looks confused when he finds the box, and when he pulls it out and opens it, his face falls slack. Arthur’s gut twists up, and he waits for John to find his words. 

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, and Arthur laughs tightly. 

When he’d first found it, there were thirty-two gold bars inside. The sight is no less overwhelming now that there are thirty. John shakes his head and puts his hands on his face like he can’t understand what he’s looking at. 

“What is this?” he asks. 

“Gold.”

“Fuck you, Arthur, I can _see_.”

“Wasn’t sure,” Arthur chuckles, and crouches down next to him. “I found it, when we were up here the first time. Ain’t used much. Nothin’s more suspicious than a man like me tryin’ to trade in a couple thousand dollars in gold, and there’s not a fence in the goddamn country’s got that much cash on him to pay out.” 

“How come you didn’t give it to Dutch?”

“Honestly? I don’t really know. Insurance policy, maybe. Figured if there was an emergency, we’d need it. And he ain’t – he hasn’t been makin’ great decisions for a while, now. I sold two of ‘em to that feller in Emerald Ranch and put most of it into the camp so everybody was comfortable, and I been usin’ the rest to pay off Strauss’ debtors.” 

“Really?”

“It’s as much for me as it is for them,” Arthur scoffs at John’s incredulous face. “I hate collectin’ from desperate folks who’re mostly good and down on their luck. Ain’t the same as robbin’ violent drunks and bastards so rich they own half the country. I haven’t had to collect a single god damn cent since before Blackwater.”

John doesn’t say anything. He moves his hands over his face again, and Arthur smiles. 

“I was gonna take you out here after we got Jack back, before… well. Before it all went to hell. Kinda like this better. You remember what we talked about back when Dutch had us blow up that bridge, John?”

“’Course.”

“You still wanna take your family and run? Won’t even have to ask Abigail about where Dutch’s got his money.”

“You comin’?”

“Yeah. Sadie, too. Probably a few others. Selectively, since some folks are a little… caught up in it all.”

“I think you’re right about that,” John groans, and leans back, setting his dirty hands on the ground behind him to prop himself up. Arthur drops his cigarette to the ground. “Guess we’re gettin’ out, then. So what’s the plan?”

“Reckon there’s about… I dunno. Fifteen, twenty thousand left here. And then with what we all got tucked away… it’s enough to start, for a few people, and it’s _legal_. More money than I ever held in my hands outside of the job in Blackwater and it’s legal. Go figure. Anyway, it’ll tide us over for a few months while we lie low, then we can get somewhere quiet and sparsely populated where there ain’t many feds. New Austin, maybe. Buy some land, build a house. Pay some folks who know what the hell they’re doin’ to show us the ropes and start a ranch or somethin’ stupid like that.”

“I mean, how we gonna get everybody down here without Dutch losin’ his goddamn mind? We go in tellin’ folks who want to get out to come with us, he ain’t gonna by thrilled.”

“Well to start with, you’re gonna stay here.”

“Like hell I am.”

“No, listen. You’re gonna stay here, and you’re gonna take this up northwest. There’s a cabin up near Mount Shann, called Vetter’s cabin. You wait there, and we’ll meet you. I’m gonna meet up with Sadie in Rhodes before we ride back so there ain’t any suspicions about you’n’me doin’ somethin’ behind Dutch’s back, and the two of us are gonna get folks out.”

“How?”

“Ain’t sure yet. Figure Sadie’ll get Abigail and Jack out fast, and I’ll figure out who else and then make sure there ain’t no way they can follow. Split everybody up, meet ‘em somewhere else so they can’t talk if they’re caught, and then bring everybody to meet with you all. Or Dutch’ll catch us and there’ll be a big shootout.” 

“I don’t like that plan, Arthur.”

“Neither do I, but if you come back with me they’re gonna lay in to us right away. If you don’t, we can say we saw you at the train station and that you ran, and I can deal with Dutch tellin’ me he was right about you and he can distract himself feelin’ smug while we get out.” 

Arthur watches the muscles in John’s jaw tighten, but he nods, and the tense feeling in Arthur’s stomach finally unwinds. He puts his hand on John’s knee and squeezes  and watches John shake his head as he gives up  trying to fight him.

“So,” John says. “Where’s this cabin, exactly?” 

 

 

* * *

  


When they get back to Beaver Hollow, Arthur is thankful for two things. The first is that Hosea is dead, because he can’t imagine what it would be like if he was there. It might just kill him seeing things get as bad as they had gotten. The second thing is that despite the fact he never liked going along with Hosea’s elaborate plans, he had, because  now  he wasn’t so bad at acting. 

It was easy to get himself angry, thinking about all the terrible things that had happened. All of the terrible, avoidable things. Easy to get angry to Dutch’s face, thinking of the fact that Dutch had caused all of them.  And their story is believable, because nobody can blame Arthur for secretly wanting revenge on the O’Driscolls for the torture he experienced, and nobody questions Sadie for her motivations. Especially not when she changes back into the clothes  still covered in blood  before they get back . So they ride into camp, and learn that more people are gone – Uncle and Pearson are gone, and so are Mary-Beth and the Reverend. Abigail is in hysterics, and Arthur can’t tell if she’s acting or not, but he doesn’t think about it for too long. Dutch is walking up to him, ranting wildly. 

“Where’ve you been? Leavin’ us like that – again with the _plans_ , Arthur!” he says, and Arthur feels the muscles in his jaw clench. “You never used to be like this.”

“Arthur and I went to deal with the rest of them O’Driscolls,” Sadie says. “I asked him. Bunch of ‘em was holed up way up north.” 

“It was a blood bath,” Arthur grunts. “That oughta distract a good chunk of the law, and nobody saw us. Between that and the train, we got as many distractions as you could want.”

Dutch has paused. He looks them over blankly, his rage stilled and for a moment Arthur thinks they might fail – and then he laughs. Dutch holds out his hands in a broad gesture and laughs. 

“Well, then, I take it back! Can’t blame anybody for goin’ after those scum.”

“Dutch, I gotta talk to you,” Arthur says, and he walks close, because he knows Dutch likes the drama of it. The rest of the gang steps a little closer, too, drawn in. “It’s about Marston.”

“John,” Dutch says, and it’s laden with disgust. “John ain’t here. I was hopin’ he was with you, but I see now that ain’t the case.”

Dutch’s hand is on his shoulder.  He’s steered away from the crowd, back towards  Dutch’s tent. Arthur catches a glimpse of Sadie going to speak with Charles and thinks that’s good. Sadie can talk to Charles and Tilly, and he’ll talk to John’s family, and they’ll run.  It’ll be less complicated with fewer people. Arthur vibrates with the expectation of their escape and it mixes up with the anger in him. The place where Dutch holds his shoulder itches. He waits to speak until they’re a little ways off, but he knows people can hear. Bill isn’t good at being subtle. Micah doesn’t bother pretending he’s not listening. 

“We saw him, waitin’ for a train in Van Horn. Got on before I could stop him and ask him what the hell he was doin’ - he left. Left us all _again_. You were right, and I – I shoulda listened. I’m sorry, Dutch.” 

Arthur lets his anger into his voice, into his shaking fists. He lets it make him look down when Dutch squeezes his shoulder. It’s as good as  _I told you so_ . “He’s a coward, son. Just like the rest of ‘em. Mary-Beth, Uncle, Pearson, Swanson. Ungrateful god damn cowards.” 

“I been ungrateful too, Dutch. I shouldn’t’ve doubted you, it was just – John was family. It took me so long to forgive him. But you were right, and I shoulda listened. I loved him too much.”

“No such thing as too much love, Arthur,” Dutch says, and Arthur can hear the ghost of his old self there. Maybe it’s not a ghost. Maybe it was just a mask he wore. “But you know now, and you won’t do it again, will you? You’ll listen to me.”

“Yes, Dutch.”

“That’s my boy. Now you go, and you comfort that snake-in-the-grass’s wife. She’s been beside herself, poor girl.” 

“I’ll take care of her.”

“I know you will. You’re a good man, Arthur. Go’n see to her, and get some rest. We’ll need you for what’s comin’ next.”

Arthur nods. He’s sure they will – he’s been holding things up for too long, and without somebody to dump water all over Micah’s little fires there’s not much good that will come of anything. He can’t help but feel guilty as he walks away from Dutch, keeping his head hung low with the burden of having to tell Abigail that her husband has left again.  Abigail watches him walk up eyes wide and teary, hands clutching her skirts. He sees Jack sitting timid on the boar-skin rug in John’s tent, and hopes that when he’s older he doesn’t remember anything of this mess. 

“Where’s my husband?” Abigail says, running up to him when he’s only a few feet away like she’d been stopping herself the whole time. 

“Come on with me, Abigail.” Arthur says it softly, and takes her by the shoulder, and she sobs once before covering her mouth with her hand. She walks beside him, clinging to his arm, and they walk down towards the river. Nobody will follow them. Nobody wants to hear Abigail cry after being left for the second time. Nobody envies Arthur this task. 

He tries to think of how he’d stand, telling Abigail John was gone again. He thinks awkwardly. Tense. Apologetic. He hopes he gets it by the time they stop and he turns to look at her – his voice, though, is low in case any wind carries it away from them. 

“You keep actin’ like you’re getting bad news when I’m talkin’ about this. If anybody’s watchin’ they need to see it that way.” 

Abigail makes a choking sound, and buries her face in her hands before she falls against Arthur.  _Clever girl_ , Arthur thinks, as Abigail asks “when are we leaving”  and her shoulders shake with fake heartbreak. He tightens his arms around her and puts his mouth near her temple. 

“You get Jack packed up quiet. As soon as the right folks are keepin’ watch, we’re gone.”

“I know where Dutch keeps-”

“We don’t need it.”

“But the money-”

“We don’t need it, Abigail. We just gotta go. You gotta trust me on this, I got us covered.”

Abigail shifts her grip to his shirt  before wrapping her arms around his body , and turns her face against him. It’s been a while since he held her, and he missed the feeling.  “Is John safe?”

“As long as he don’t attract any more wolves.”

Abigail lets out a loud sob, and Arthur  thinks it might be  real .  Relief is a powerful emotion. 

They leave that night, while Sadie and Charles are keeping watch. Tilly joins them and  like Arthur expected it’s much simpler to navigate their escape with only one extra person beyond the Marstons and themselves. There was some debate as to whether or not Mrs. Grimshaw should be invited, but ultimately Arthur’s vote for yes was outnumbered. Not surprising, and maybe smart – he  thinks about her face as she shot Molly, and  decides she might not be so understanding a bout them wanting to leave . 

Charles doesn’t come. He’s going to keep watch on things from a distance and  try to stop any chaos Dutch causes with the Waipiti, and he’ll stay at the camp for an hour or so to make sure nobody follows before he takes off himself. Arthur has to admire him for that conviction– and he feels guilty, because he wants to make sure things turn out well. Charles tells him not to worry about it and to keep his family safe, and that maybe they’ll meet up again one day. Arthur hopes so, and while he doesn’t tell Charles that exactly he lets their embrace linger. Charles is a good man. 

Arthur doesn’t take much with him.  A ll of his photos and maps, a few of his favorite clothes, a mmunition . These things alone won’t cause any suspicion if somebody sees him packing. Anything bigger will seem strange. He takes the flower with him, too, as he leaves the caravan. It’s dying, but he can’t bring himself to leave it behind. It may be a while before he can find another. 

The others pack lightly, as well, if they bring much of anything at all. They take  two of the spare horses and quietly disappear into the night. Sadie takes the lead and Arthur brings up the rear, and nobody says anything until they’re well out of Murfree territory – as they reach Dewberry Creek, Arthur feels dreamy like he did when he found the gold in Limpany. When they make camp in a heavily wooded area off the beach, he sits awake and feels weirdly numb. Even as Abigail shifts so her head is near his hip  and she can hold his hand, he can’t quite shake the feeling. 

It almost feels anti-climactic. A chapter of his life that lasted for twenty years, one that featured more death and destruction and heartbreak in the past six months than the rest of the months combined, over in a few calm hours. Dutch left behind, Mary gone, and him suddenly left in this position of leadership. He hadn’t really thought of that part. Dutch had always been in charge, and now Arthur was the one with a plan. The others would look to him for next steps. When he’s in his element he doesn’t mind being the one to make plans. A bank robbery, a train, an escape plan. But this? He has no idea what he’s doing. He has no idea how two men with thousands of dollars on their heads, three women and a child are going to manage to pass undetected into New Austin. He doesn’t know what he was thinking when he talked to John about a ranch. The most ranching he’s done since he was in his teens was herding those sheep outside of Valentine. 

“It’ll be alright,” Sadie says, and when Arthur looks over at her he can see the light of the moon catching on the angles of her face. She’s got her legs stretched out, leaning back against a tree, awake to keep watch with him. 

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Just gotta lay low for a while.”

“That ain’t worked out for us too well so far.”

“We ain’t been very low. Without Dutch to keep lightin’ fires we don’t need? We’ll be fine. Dutch’ll do something big and stupid, and when everybody’s all caught up carin’ about that mess they’ll forget about all of you as long as we keep our heads down, and we’ll hop on a boat and float on down to the desert.” 

“Buncha outlaws startin’ a ranch. Silly idea.”

“You get all that outta your system now so you can keep your head in the game, Morgan. _I_ know what I’m doin’. You’re great with horses. John’s an idiot but he’s strong. And it ain’t unusual for a couple folks to go in on the same property, we’ll all be fine. Hell, nobody in the law knows my name. We’ll just make sure I’m the one on all the paperwork, and all you idiots gotta worry about is makin’ sure you keep your fake name consistent.” 

Arthur scoffs a little, and feels Abigail’s fingers flex in his hand.  Looking down, he sees that she’s awake and looking at him tiredly.  She squeezes, and mumbles, “We’ll keep each other outta trouble, Arthur. We’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees even though he’s not sure he believes it. “We’ll be fine.” 

But they’re right, really – what they’re telling him, what Hosea would tell him, is not to think about things that far down the line. He sets his sights on two days from now, when they’ll meet up with John and  he’ll watch Abigail hold him and then probably shove him hard  for not telling her what was going on , and see the look on all their faces when they set eyes on the gold.

At some point he falls asleep and when he wakes up his back is sore and there’s a painful pinch in his neck but that’s the worst of it. They eat breakfast and leave, and Arthur half expects Dutch to show up out of nowhere. He knows  that  by now, Dutch knows they’re gone,  but he doesn’t know what his injured pride will inspire him to do. For once it might be lucky that Micah is there – Micah will advise that he finish his plans with the Waipiti so they can make their grand getaway, and not waste time on a bunch of deserters  who didn’t even steal any of their money and Dutch will probably listen to it because Micah is a snake who knows how to make Dutch feel powerful. Still, as they ride, he feels cautious and paranoid. 

They take the long way around to avoid towns, and so it takes an extra day to get to where they’re going. It’s cold at night and they huddle together, and nobody comes to shoot them. Abigail and Tilly keep watch, and again Arthur falls asleep holding Abigail’s hand. She’s anxious to see John, he thinks, but she’s calm, and it’s comforting. Tilly is relieved and exhausted, and Jack doesn’t seem particularly bothered by anything at all, especially not bundled up in Arthur’s wolf-lined coat. He stays wrapped in it the next day, and rides with Tilly so Abigail can get a little bit of a break – he asks if he can ride fast with Arthur, and Arthur laughs and tells him later. For now, they have to stay together. 

John has done something right for once – he’s sitting on the porch of the cabin when they show up, and Arthur can tell from the look on his face that he’s going to get a lot of shit for not telling  him about the  clear signs of a bear attack there. Arthur just grins at him because the look doesn’t last long, and laughs when Abigail jumps off her horse and runs to embrace him. He feels warm watching it, and the feeling lasts as Tilly lifts Jack and sets him on the ground and the Marstons reunite completely. For a few minutes, he doesn’t feel that guilty anymore. This is worth it. He hopes  Charles  gets the satisfaction of making the right choice, too, wherever he is. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Sadie says, making a show of fake exasperation as she dismounts. “Get on inside, I wanna see how dismal our prospects are, financially speakin’.” 

“I’m tellin’ you, I have a plan,” Arthur chuckles. He’s already on the ground, helping Tilly down. She makes a noise of disgust as he takes her hand. 

“I never wanna hear those words again,” she tells him. Arthur can’t blame her. 

Life at the cabin is uncomfortable because of the tight space, but Arthur doesn’t mind. He’s slept in more uncomfortable places, and sleeping with his favorite people practically on top of him isn’t the worst thing that can happen. John and Sadie, in particular, seem to get a little agitated by it after a while. John spends enough time hunting that he actually gets better  at it, and Sadie, being the only one without reason to need to hide, makes trips to town. She cashes  in  one of the gold bars to get them supplies and goes every other week. Arthur still expects something to happen – Pinkertons, bounty hunters, Dutch. Anything. But nothing  does. Things are painfully normal. He teaches Jack – and Abigail, by proxy – to read. They split the gold up between them, so if for whatever reason they need to run and split up, nobody is left in the cold. They make decisions as a group. Sadie has as much responsibility for the planning as Arthur does, and he feels better about that.  Even starts to feel normal . 

One day, Sadie comes back from Strawberry with a newspaper. The newspaper has a deadline that makes him feel numb  all over again . SHOOTOUT AT ROANOKE RIDGE – VAN DER LINDE GANG DEAD, DOZENS WOUNDED. 

The Pinkertons had found them. Everybody was dead, Dutch included.  There  are no names listed, but there  is a gritty photo of Dutch’s body, an d so Arthur doesn’t doubt that anybody else who stayed is dead too.  He wishes that he had the satisfaction of seeing Micah dead paired with the icy chill he feels looking at the image of Dutch.

“Guess it’s time we oughta look for somebody with a boat,” Sadie says.

“Guess so,” Arthur agrees, and he hears his voice and knows it sounds strange. He knows they exchange looks, and he doesn’t particularly want to talk to anybody about the fact that all he can think is that he should have been there to help. So he hands the paper to John in case he wants to see, and excuses himself from the cabin. Nobody follows him, and so he lets himself cry as he leans against a tree not too far away. He gets it all out of his system now, like Sadie said. He knows he made the right choice, but it doesn’t make it easier. 

That night, he  sits between the Marstons and shares a bottle of whiskey with John, and neither of them say anything  even after everyone else goes to sleep .  Abigail latches on to the arm nearest her, and he can hear John swallow over the gentle crackling of the fire. It’s cold, and Arthur lets himself look forward to a time where he’s warm again,  and he appreciates the silence and the press of John’s arm against his as they sit side by side. 

“Y’know you’re part of my family too, right?” John says, abrupt and quiet and slurred by the whiskey he’s been drinking. 

“The hell you talkin’ about, Marston.”

“In Shady Belle you kept talkin’ about me needin’ to be with my family and you always… you always talk like that don’t include you. Just makin’ sure you know, is all. Tell him, Abigail.”

“Ain’t much else to tell. That’s how it is. You’re one of us, Arthur Morgan, whether you like it or not.”

Arthur nods , and makes a noise  of acknowledgment as Abigail’s grip around his arm tightens . He’s not sure he remembers how to use his words, or what he would say if he did, so he just puts his arm around John’s shoulders. John doesn’t seem to mind that he leaves it there. It seems strange, Arthur thinks, that out of everybody they’re the two remaining. Dutch’s boys. Two successes out of a failed experiment. Arthur chokes back tears audibly, but  John doesn’t point it out  and neither does Abigail . Arthur thinks  John might lean a little closer, but it’s hard to say. 

That numb, dream-like feeling is back  the next morning  and it stays for a few days. Arthur is thankful that Sadie is competent in all things -  s he’s gotten them a boat piloted by a man who doesn’t ask questions, and knows enough about New Austin that she knows where to go. She tells them they’ll stay in a town called Tumbleweed while they look for  property, which they should find easily. Maybe not somewhere they can raise cattle, but there will be other options. They can figure it out once they’re there. Arthur likes that, he thinks, because anything else seems overwhelming. 

Part of him is convinced that the whole endeavor is bound to fail, because he isn’t a good man. He’s a criminal. John is a criminal. They’ve been raised wild, they don’t know how to function in society, and they’ll slip up and put everybody at risk eventually. The other part of him knows that that’s bullshit, and they’re both capable men with plenty to lose and they won’t do anything  to jeopardize everybody’s safety. They’re not Dutch.

I f what they have to lose isn’t enough  to keep them in line , Abigail is right – they’ll all keep each other in check. They all have roles they’ll fall into, and they’ll learn to balance each other out. They already know each other well, they’ve already lived through a lifetime of stress as a team, and this will be nothing in comparison when he looks back on it. As they get ready to leave the cold behind, saddling up their horses, Arthur watches Tilly and Abigail howling with laughter as John fumbles a bag full of gold with comedic intent while Sadie scolds him for goofing off, and Jack tightens his little hands in the lapels of Arthur’s coat. Abigail turns and grins wide at him with a smile that reaches all the way up to her eyes, and Arthur thinks that they might be fine after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen the treasure glitch in Limpany that happened for the special edition pre-order was awesome because now all my guns are made of gold I have all the clothes and my 4 horse squad is boss, but now I have like $15000 that I'm never going to use and listening to Dutch be like WE NEED MORE MONEY LET'S KEEP DOING DUMB THINGS and Arthur be like SORRY MARY I NEED MORE MONEY BEFORE WE CAN RUN AWAY is k i l l i n g me because I HAVE ALL THE MONEY GUYS COME ON IT IS 1899 HOW MUCH MONEY DO YOU NEED
> 
> Also, just wanted to say - this is by far the chillest fandom I've ever had the pleasure of being a part of. Y'all are great.

**Author's Note:**

> Unpopular opinion: I like Mary Linton, I think her and Arthur are a really good romantic tragedy.


End file.
